All the Point of View - Revision
by Phantwo
Summary: THIS IS NOT SPAM! I have revised my phic so that I wasn't copying the musical. Read and review, please. This isn't 100% original but it's much more original that my last version, which I moved to Books > Phantom. Read them both if you've the time to read


All the Point of View -- Revised -- By Phantwo

**All the Point of View****  
**_Perhaps it is all the point of view. - Lord Sheftu_  
  
Author's Notes: Here is the complete ATPOV in its 47-page splendour. (LOL) I left in my old authors' notes and I'm changing this one slightly. This is my revised ATPOV (go read the original too, although it's quite similar to this one) which is still from Erik's point of view and can either be complete or incomplete depending on your preference. I have another part that I am working on that I shall add to this when I have completed it. I changed some of the parts in which I copied the lyrics from the musical—but I left Music of the Night _alone!_  
  
**Chapter One  
A New Possibility  
**  
Beautiful, Carlotta! Lefèvré complimented the heavyweight airheaded prima donna, Carlotta Giudicelli. That was indeed your greatest performance I have seen yet.  
  
I heard scuffling noises of the people making their way out of the Opera, then of the cast congratulating each other, and then the usual gossip.  
  
I yawned, looking about my private box, silently cursing everything I'd ever known. The moments whittled away in Persia, the days long spent in my underground lair, the wasted time listening to that cursed daroga, the terror of sitting through an opera in which Carlotta sung the lead role, and even those few minutes I remembered spending with my mother. I had made her life unreasonable - on purpose, of course - so she could feel my pain, but all it seemed to do was make her more paranoid. I prayed that something exciting would happen, for a change.  
  
As if an answer to my prayer, I heard some juicy news spreading among the energized ballerinas and dancers.  
  
I heard that there's a new dancer coming to the Opera! said one particularly young-sounding voice.  
  
Wow! Did you get her name? said another voice, one I vaguely recognised as my old friend' Madame Giry's daughter, Meg.  
  
I believe it was Christine Daaé, the young one replied.  
  
An old friend! Meg whispered in delight.  
  
This was intriguing. Perhaps I would hear more if I got in closer. Climbing down the hollow column in Box Five, I took a passage that led straight to the stage. From my new vantage point, my ears did not have to strain to hear everything, and my view was just perfect.  
  
The jittery dancers were only idly gossiping for about ten minutes before we were all rewarded with something that would change my life forever.  
  
I heard a new sound coming from behind me, and my eyes shifted over there. My mouth dropped open. Tiptoeing timidly onto the stage was the most beautiful young woman I'd ever seen in my life. Her long, curly golden-brown hair glistened with the stage lights, her blue eyes gleaming with fright, reflecting the beams of yellow light pouring onto her like a spotlight. I could hear her white dress sliding softly on the floor as she passed right by me. I shut my eyes and put a vivid image of her in my head. If there was such thing as love at first sight, I was experiencing it right now.  
  
Meg called to the rabbit-like child, who was obviously that new dancer they had been speaking of. Her eyes lit up at the familiar face, and she dashed to her and embraced her old friend. So this was the now-popular Christine Daaé. My heart skipped a beat as I watched her become the new obsession of the dancers for a day or two.  
  
Christine soon grew tired of the attention she was receiving, and I could see tears forming in her sad, blue eyes. Blue. Like the ocean splashing against the wharfs in Persia, like the sapphires I'd seen with the Shah of Persia. . . . She retired from the jittery throng of dancers to go to her new dressing room and I slipped out of my hiding place to follow her.  
  
She had a beautiful voice, too, though I noticed it would need training to ever be a box office hit.  
  
To my delightful surprise, her dressing room was the one with my secret passage to my house. The mirror had a counterweight that allowed it to turn, and only one side of it worked as a mirror. The other side was dead transparent, and I could see right through it.  
  
Hmm, I thought, realising that it would be impossible to slip through the mirror while she was in the room. I'd have to go through some other passage. I sighed, trotting away from the dressing room, my eyes still fastened on it longingly. Before long it was out of sight. I crawled through a trapdoor and hurried down to the torture-chamber through the little gap that separated it from the cellar.  
  
I came round to the passage that led to Christine's dressing room. I sat watching her for a long while, time that I did not keep track of. It was only at her reply that I realised I had just whispered to her, Christine. . . .  
  
Her timid face lit up with surprise, looking up to the mirror, where the voice had come from. She walked closer to the mirror, her beautiful blue eyes locked to it and wide with suprise, shock, and perhaps even horror.  
  
Frantically wondering what I should do, I began singing to her songs I had written myself as gently as I could with my emotional desperation, and she drew closer, closer, until she was touching the mirror. It was unlike me to share anything out of _Don Juan Triumphant_, but I couldn't think of anything else to sing at the time!  
  
She opened her mouth to speak. she asked the now-glowing mirror.  
  
Yes, yes! That was good, that was wonderful! If she thought me an angel, I could fool her most certainly. I replied softly.  
  
Angel of Music. . . so father kept his promise . . . ? She backed away and shut her eyes and I guessed she was being flooded with memories.  
  
Christine . . . Now I'd get to know the glorious Christine. The young Swedish guttersnipe who somehow made it to the Opera. Her blue eyes were bright with excitement as what I said sank in.  
  
I was thankful I had a beautiful voice. I knew she'd be thinking I had the voice of an angel, since she had believed I was her Angel of Music. What a cruel deception. . . but it was the only thing I could do to get her to look past my mask once she met me. I wondered if we'd ever meet face to face, since I had deceived her once. . . .  
  
Christine turned away to change, and I turned away. Once I was sure she'd finished, I came back to the mirror.   
  
She looked up at the mirror, which was glowing like I knew my cheeks were - at least, the cheek not covered by scars and a mask.  
  
she said softly.  
  
I answered her.  
  
W-will you teach me to sing, please? If you—  
  
Without waiting, I interrupted her. Of course, Christine. . . . I was excited now.  
  
She smiled and trotted away without farewell. I didn't need farewell. I collapsed against the wall and tried hard to steady my beating heart.  
  
The next evening, she was there, ready for her lesson. She wanted to start immediately. Christine's private lessons with me had begun.  
  
**Chapter 2  
A Diva's Debut**  
  
After about three months' lessons, Christine's voice had improved greatly. I found so much joy in teaching her - the first joy I'd experienced in years. But my annoyance was growing, as well, with every night Carlotta performed a lead role in the Opera.  
  
It was about then that the current manager, Lefèvre, retired, bringing two new messieurs with him - Messieurs Richard Firmin and Gilles André. Intriguing.  
  
I was there at the rehearsal of Hannibal' while Lefèvré was showing the new managers around - his final days at the Opera Populaire. Hidden in the shadows, watching, I noticed that Joseph Buquet was away from his post. I slipped into his place and watched.  
  
Carlotta was preparing to sing for André and Firmin - just great. And there was Christine, who knew the lines just perfectly and had a voice three times as beautiful, watching this overweight pampered excuse for a diva performing what was rightfully hers.  
  
An idea sprung to my mind. I would drop the backing. With luck, it would land on her. Slowly and skillfully I worked the ropes and aimed. Then I fired by releasing the rope I held. It crashed down - and missed. Oh well. . . .  
  
The dancers went hysterical, Carlotta screamed, and the managers searched for Buquet. Meg led the dancers in song: He's here, the Phantom of the Opera! He's with us, it's the ghost!  
  
Chief of the flies. He's responsible for this, the retiring manager explained to the new messieurs impatiently. Buquet! Buquet, for all our sakes, stop fooling about and tell us what is going on up there!  
  
Buquet, emerging from the blackness of the wings, came with a rope with a noose-like end and fastened it to the backdrop. Hurriedly he lifted the backdrop and spoke to the angry men with an edge of dark innocence. Please, monsieur, don't look at me; as God's my witness, I was not at my post. Please monsieur, there's no one there: and if there is, then, it _must _be a ghost. . . .  
  
Ha. Ghost. Certainly, I was a ghost. I was Christine's angel, Lefèvre's Opera Ghost, the dancers' Phantom of the Opera, and my own man. How much I enjoyed messing with their minds; it was almost, and I say almost, as fun as being with Christine—although some of the fun with Christine was ruined by burning desire and desire to be a man to her and more than a simple angel behind a mirror.  
  
André tried to comfort the pampered prima donna. These things do happen, he explained.  
  
Si! These things do happen! she scoffed. Well, until you _stop_ these things from happening, _this_ thing does _not _happen! She stormed off the stage. Heh heh heh.  
  
Who is the understudy for this role? one of the managers - I didn't take note which - asked Madame Giry, the ballet mistress and Meg's mother, as well as my private boxkeeper.  
  
she sighed, there is no understudy; this is a new production, after all, and we've not prepared another yet.  
  
Christine Daaé could sing it, monsieur. Meg was piping up now. I was suddenly aware of everything going on. Yes, she could and I would make certain she _would_—she would sing for me!  
  
The chorus girl? Firmin asked uncertainly.  
  
As Meg explained about Christine's lessons, my hopes soared. Christine might receive a role in Hannibal!  
  
Please, monsieur, allow her to sing for you. She has been taught well, Madame Giry assured the clearly uncertain managers.  
  
Very well, Firmin finally replied. Let her sing.  
  
Christine nervously stepped up to sing. Reyer played a two-bar introduction, and Christine began her lines.  
  
Think of me,  
think of me fondly  
when we've said goodbye. . . .  
  
She sang beautifully. So well she was granted the part. I went off to teach her how to sing it even better that evening when she returned to her dressing room.  
  
Evenings later, she was singing in the gala performance. I watched happily from my place in box five.  
  
I noticed up in the managers' box, there was a new man. Who was this? Upon further inspection, I noticed it was the new patron - Vicomte de Chagny. He was saying something of his own, which I didn't care for; the only words of his I heard were,   
  
I thought of her, most definitely - I couldn't think of anything but. And once she retired to her dressing room after the performance, I was there behind the mirror immediately. She was almost to the door when I sang.  
  
Bravi, bravi, bravissimi. . . .  
  
Christine was bewildered, but Meg, who had approached from behind, had not heard me.  
  
Where in the world have you been hiding? Meg asked Christine. Really, you were perfect! I beamed. I only wish I knew your secret! Who is this new tutor?  
  
Father once spoke of an angel. . . I used to dream he'd appear. . . now as I sing, I can sense him, and I know he's here. . . .  
  
Both of them jittery, they continued to talk about the Angel of Music' (translate that as _me_). I was ecstatic and somewhat shocked that they were actually talking about me.  
  
Their conversation was abruptly ended as Madame Giry handed Christine a note and took Meg away to practice with the other dancers. Christine read the note aloud.  
  
A red scarf . . . the attic . . . Little Lotte . . . .  
  
Christine entered the dressing room. I chose not to say anything until I knew more. If I were her Angel, I _should_ know about these things. I heard some footsteps coming from outside and somewhat muffled conversation.  
  
Pressing my ear to the wall, I strained to hear.  
  
A _tour de force!_ No other way to describe it! It was Monsieur André.  
  
What a relief! Not a single refund! exclaimed Firmin.  
  
Heh, it was Madame Firmin.  
  
I think we've found something amazing, Richard—Christine Daaé! André was saying. I nearly melted against the wall.  
  
Here we are, Monsieur le Vicomte, Firmin said, and I realised that the Vicomte had been with them all along.  
  
Gentlemen, if you wouldn't mind, this is one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied, said the childish, premature Vicomte's voice.  
  
_Get away from my Christine._  
  
Where did that come from? I asked myself. That was _abrupt thinking,_ to say the very least.  
  
Christine, where is your scarf? the Vicomte asked, entering the room.  
  
Christine asked uncertainly.  
  
You can't have lost it. Not after all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen and soaked to the skin . . . .  
  
_Good for you,_ I thought, rolling my eyes. _Now get away from my Christine._  
  
Christine laughed, and I narrowed my eyes at the boy.  
  
Because you had to run into the sea to fetch my scarf, she finished delightfully. Oh, Raoul. So it _is _you! Normally I'd have groaned, but I didn't want her to know what I was thinking. I knew an angel shouldn't be jealous, but I couldn't help but feel a little green.  
  
Raoul confirmed, embracing her and laughing. I made a mental note to gag when I had the chance.  
  
Christine mentioned me visiting her, and I almost smiled.  
  
Then things got worse.  
  
No doubt of it - and now we'll go to supper!  
  
_No, Monsieur le Vicomte. You're not taking my Christine._ Where were all these my Christines coming from? She wasn't mine. . . yet. _Monsieur le Victomte, get away from Christine. ACK!_  
  
No, Raoul, the Angel of Music is very strict, Christine whispered, as if an answer to my silent plea.  
  
He shrugged her off. Oh, come, Christine. You must change; I must get my hat. I'll be back in two minutes—Little Lotte. With that, he trotted out of the room. I was furious with him, but glad to see his young, hideously ignorant figure glide—rather more like haughtily strut—out of the room.  
  
Christine sighed and looked down at her feet. Things have changed, Raoul.  
  
As soon as I was sure he was gone, I furiously stormed, Insolent boy! This slave of fashion, basking in _your _glory! Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor, sharing in _my_ triumph!  
  
Breathlessly, she gasped and answered back. Angel! Oh, speak, I'm listening! Please—stay—stay with me! Oh, forgive me, for my soul was weak—enter at last, master!  
  
I smiled and decided now was the time for her to see her Angel—or ghost, if one will. I prayed silently for an instant that she would accept me when she found out I was no angel, but the Phantom of the Opera' or Opera ghost' and just a simple—well, rather, not simple, but still just a man in love.  
  
said I, very noticeably mellowing from my anger at the foolish viscount and sounding once again smitten, you shall know me—and you will see why in shadow I hide. Now, look at yourself in the mirror, Christine—I am there, inside! Lighting a lantern on this side of the mirror gave it the lighting it needed to become transparent from her side. I tried my best to look like an angel as she stared through the glass and saw the real me for the first time.  
  
Angel of Music!—oh, my guide, my guardian—grant to me your glory! she exclaimed, ecstatic. Angel of Music, hide no longer! Come to me, strange Angel . . . .  
  
_Strange?_ I thought. Then I remembered my mask. Ignoring it, I was ready for her to come to me.  
  
I am your angel of music. . . . I purred. Come to me: Angel of Music. . . .  
  
It was about then that the boy returned, but the door of the dressing room was locked.  
  
Whose is that voice? Who _is_ that in there? he asked thin air. I would have laughed at his cluelessness, were I not drawing my precious Christine to me.  
  
I am your angel of music. . . . Come to me: Angel of Music. . . .  
  
The mirror was glowing now, and Christine was approaching it. I worked the mechanism that turned the mirror so quickly that in a moment it opened up like a door. I reached out and snatched Christine by the wrist firmly - yet not fiercely - and pulled her into an inferno of light behind the mirror. The mirror closed once again behind us.  
  
shouted the voice of the bewildered boy' as he stepped into the empty room.  
  
**Chapter 3  
A Suppressed and Revealed Secret**  
  
Like a cat I led Christine down the catwalks toward my house under the Opera House. She followed me eagerly, singing as we walked:  
  
In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came. . . that voice which calls to me and speaks my name. . . . And do I dream again? For now I find the Phantom of the Opera is there, inside my mind. . . .  
  
_How on earth does she know that I'm the Phantom already?_  
  
We turned a corner and lowered down a level into another cellar. Those who have seen your face draw back in fear. . . . Christine murmured, her voice a bell-like whisper in my ear. _However, Christine, you have not seen my face—I suppose you ought to thank me. _I am the mask you wear—  
  
It's me they hear.  
  
Your spirit and my voice, Angel, they are. . . . She trailed off softly, glaring into my mask. I glared right back into her beautiful blue eyes.  
  
I took her hand in both of mine as I helped her from the last cellar onto the banks of the lake.  
  
It was about then that we reached the lake and climbed into my boat. I reached for the pole and pushed off the edge of the water.  
  
In all your fantasies, you always knew. . . that man and mystery. . .  
  
Were both in you, she finished.  
  
And in this labyrinth, where night is blind - the Phantom of the Opera is there . . . .  
  
Inside my mind. . . . she went on softly.  
  
Sing, my angel of music, I insisted, very mellowly and totally bedazzled and beguiled by her.  
  
He's there, the Phantom of the Opera. . . . Christine then began vocalising beautifully. As her song grew more extravagant, I encouraged her more.  
  
Sing for me!  
  
She sang for me, all right - probably could have shattered a glass, had she the chance. I sat down at the organ as we walked into my house.  
  
I have brought you  
to the seat of sweet music's throne,  
to that kingdom where all must pay homage to music,  
music. . . .  
You have come here  
for one purpose and one alone -  
Since that moment I first heard you sing,  
I have needed you with me, to serve me; to sing. . . .  
for my music. . . music. . . .  
  
I turned to her. Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation - darkness stirs, and wakes imagination . . . silently the senses abandon their defences. . . .  
  
As I sang to her, she became extremely enveloped by my song. Finally I felt brave enough - and she was relaxed enough with me - to reach over and place my arm around her neck, standing behind her and swaying slightly. She swayed with me, as if we were floating.  
  
Floating, falling, sweet intoxication— Ah, yes, she was intoxicated with music right now— Touch me, trust me, savour each sensation! I drew her hand into mine and walked slowly toward a mirror with a dustcover on it. Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in . . . We arrived at the mirror and I let go of her hand. . . . To the power of the music that I write: the power of the music of the night. . . . I pulled away the dustcover and Christine stared intently at what she saw - herself in a wedding gown. She walked slowly towards it, but then its hands thrust themselves out of the mirror toward her. She fainted almost immediately. I reached out, bent down and caught her. The boat was like a bed when not in the water, and I laid her down on it, placing my cloak about her shoulders.  
  
You alone can make my song take flight . . . help me make the music of the night. . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The next morning I sat at my organ, pounding away and composing. My concentration was sincere. It was all turning out nicely, though I knew the sound would be much better done by a full orchestra and band rather than just a pipe organ.  
  
I stopped to write down some music. Then I returned to my playing. Once more I stopped to write down the music I was playing. Then suddenly - I felt something on the right side of my face, and then my mask was _off._  
  
Furiously, I screamed, then turned furiously to the timid Christine, who flung herself against the wall, holding my mask and staring at my ugly face.  
  
I cursed at my one love, then I accused her. You little prying Pandora! You little demon! Is this what you wanted to see?  
  
Curse you! You little lying Delilah! You little viper - now you cannot ever be free!  
  
I growled bitterly and nearly grabbed her by the shoulders. Come, answer me! Is this—is _this_ what you wanted me to show you all along?  
  
Once again I cursed at her. My voice quivered and I was nearly choking with sobs. _Why, Christine? Why?_  
  
I took a deep breath, then turned away. Christine, you see this face—I trust your imagination conjured up something entirely different, eh? You see why I cower in this cellar across the lake? And, Christine, you are afraid.  
  
I turned back to her. But, Christine— fear can turn to love— Had I just said it? You'll learn to see the man behind the monster, who seems a beast, but secretly dreams of beauty, secretly, secretly. . . I felt a tear drip down my scarred face. Oh, Christine. . . . I collapsed against the floor headfirst.  
  
After a moment of tense weeping—oh, the humiliation, am I not supposed to be strong?—I held out my hand, and Christine handed me the mask. I fastened it back on and turned away. Letting out a sigh, I scowled, remembering something. Christine, we have to go back. Those two idiots that are my managers will be wondering where you are.  
  
I led Christine to her dressing room once again, then returned to my home and sat down with a red pen and some writing material. I scribbled a few notes and signed them with my initials - O.G.  
  
I dropped the notes into the managers' inbox and returned to my lair. True, Christine had unmasked me - but perhaps if I continued to teach her, to let her know me, she would look past the mask and see the man behind it.  
  
I smiled as I sat back to listen to the foolish managers of the Opera read my notes. Today was certainly going to be fun.  
  
-------  
Author's Notes: This chapter has some stuff changed in it, and the daroga comes to visit our Opera Ghost. Not too much changed, though. *L*  
  
**Chapter 4  
Notes**  
  
It wasn't long before I heard Monsieur Firmin's voice reading a headline in the paper. Wow, I had publicity now.  
  
André strode into the room moments later, and he was about as pleased as I had been when Christine tore my mask off. (What a feat! If she were a little nicer, perhaps she would have only screamed instead of flinging herself against the wall!)  
  
Heh heh heh. They had come across my notes now.  
  
Dear André,  
what a charming gala! Christine enjoyed a great success! Indeed she had - _my _success - and her thank-you lay in what a gift she had presented me this morning. We were hardly bereft when Carlotta left— I suppressed a grin. That much was true. —otherwise, the chorus was entrancing, but the dancing was a lamentable mess!  
  
I had to agree (obviously, since I had written the note). Unfortunate were the eyes that were laid upon the dancers that evening.  
  
Firmin proceeded to read his note, and I could not hold back the sly smile curving my mouth as they asked themselves who the mysterious was. Of course it was the Phantom of the Opera.  
  
Firmin stood up, angrily. Who on earth would have the audacity to send this? I cannot believe my eyes!  
  
These are both signed with the same initials, André mused.   
  
Who _is_ O.G.? they asked amongst themselves.  
  
To rhyme with what they said, I replied, They didn't hear me.  
  
It was just minutes later that an upset Vicomte burst into the room. I knew what _his_ predicament was.  
  
Where is she? he yelled at them.  
  
You mean Carlotta?  
  
I just about fell out of my chair, I was so disgusted with their suspicion. Who could miss that fat, pampered woman? Of course, I grimly hoped he _was_ looking for Carlotta. I didn't want to feel jealous now of all times of the patron. Well, I shouldn't feel jealous, I tried to say to myself. She can still love you - she can look behind the mask and beyond the face that lies beneath it.  
  
Or perhaps that was just a wishful thought to try and run away from this unfair setback.  
  
I didn't care to think things over. She could always love him - but not me. Why bother thinking about her now. . . .  
  
I mean Miss Daaé!  
  
Arr. There came the dreaded words. A sea of jealousy swept over me. Now how was I to rid my home - and my life - of the patron, without hurting my beloved Christine. . . .  
  
I scolded myself once again silently. I reminded myself she was not mine. She was his. Arr. Now I knew even more I needed somehow to rid this place of the young viscount.  
  
Well, how should we know? Firmin asked him irritably.  
  
I want an answer! The Vicomte was impatient. Now, did he _really_ believe that Firmin and André had as messy handwriting as myself?  
  
I turned and strutted around the room. This could go in Don Juan, perhaps - another part of my life story. Jealousy. . . .  
  
The viscount's voice was making me as green with nausea as it was with jealousy and envy, so I covered my ears in attempt to shut out the high, squealy voice. That baby! I could stand being separated from the dearest thing to me in life for days at a time, and he couldn't be away from her for over _twenty-four hours_ without shrieking about it. I knew he couldn't possibly love her as much as I did. Dark thoughts of how to murder him painfully began to fill my head.  
  
Then moments later Carlotta burst into the room and her squawking high-pitched voice filled my head—involuntarily. Nauseated as her presence made me, I laughed at her reaction to my note as she blamed the foolish managers for the threat.  
  
The managers began to mutter together once again, but were interrupted by Madame Giry.  
  
Miss Daaé has returned, she stated flatly.  
  
Firmin muttered something about Christine's midnight oil being thoroughly burned.  
  
So where is she now? asked André.  
  
Meg and her mother informed him that she was at home; then the lovesick viscount asked _the question._  
  
May I see her?  
  
No, m'sieur. She'll not see anyone, Madame Giry replied. _Whew._  
  
A few more rambles were here and there and then Madame Giry pulled out my note. Here I have a note, she informed the others.  
  
Let me see it! everyone demanded.  
  
Firmin snatched the note and began reading.  
  
I forced myself to stop gagging long enough to listen to them.  
  
Big mistake. They went mad after reading the note, promising Carlotta the lead role in Il Muto.  
  
The whole company started buttering her up, singing to the prima donna all sorts of lies about how much the crowd adored her, how much her public needed her, and other assorted commentary from others as the song grew more extravagant.  
  
I stormed furiously as they all stopped to finish their song of reassurance to the dimwitted diva. It is to be war between us, then! If these demands are not met, _a disaster beyond your imagination will occur!_  
  
Once more! they finished their song.  
  
**Chapter 5  
It's I, Mr. Toad, it's I singing!**  
  
Tonight was the performance of Il Muto. The performance was partially underway when I made my way to Box Five.  
  
But the box was not empty. There was a shape inside of it - the figure of a man. Now who was _this?_  
  
Upon further inspection, I realised exactly who it was - the Vicomte de Chagny. The pampered patron. The lovesick leech. My names did not even _begin_ to describe the wretch.  
  
Furious, I used my loudest voice. Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept _empty_? I demanded.  
  
The dancers skittered, and Meg said it: He's here: the Phantom of the Opera. . . .  
  
It's him - I know it, it's him! Christine whispered breathlessly. _Well, Mademoiselle Daaé, do you have a problem with me - other than my face, of course, I mean._  
  
Your part is silent, little toad! Carlotta hissed at her.  
  
Oh, this left her _open_ for attack.  
  
A toad, Madame? I snickered. Are you sure that the toad is not _you_?  
  
The orchestra began to play, and Carlotta began to sing. But in the middle of her song, she croaked. I began laughing.  
  
She attempted to sing once more, and once again—_croaaakkkk!!_ I laughed harder and harder. The chandelier's lights flickered on and off.  
  
I shouted. La Carlotta is singing to bring the chandelier down!  
  
Carlotta was crying by now and was led off the stage by the head tenor (who could not sing an opera part to save his life) and Carlotta's lover (what terrible taste) Ubaldo Piangi. Firmin kept an eye on the wild chandelier as he switched the roles - Christine getting her rightful part. André, improvising, decided to give the ballet from Act Three at this moment. I took this time to slip down backstage and strangle Joseph Buquet, while casting my shadow all over the stage, causing Meg to fall out of step.  
  
At the climax of the song, I tossed Buquet's dead body onto the stage without a qualm.  
  
The dancers screamed. The managers tried to comfort the panicking audience. Christine begged for Raoul's help. I gagged. Raoul came to her aid. I gagged some more. Christine and Raoul made their way up to the roof. I followed them, choking on my throat all the while and thinking vengeful thoughts aimed at the boy.  
  
Where to go? There were no good vantage points on the roof except . . . my gaze flickered to the statue of Apollo. _No, this is stupid,_ I assured myself as I climbed up it. Perfect view. My ears did not have to strain, either.  
  
I soon realised that not needing to strain my ears was a bad thing.  
  
Christine immediately began pouring out to Raoul all different feelings. He'll kill me! she assured Raoul.  
  
I wanted to shout at her. No, Christine, I would never kill you! I felt like saying everything to her. Christine, I would never kill you. . . all I want is for you to love me for who I am—can't you do that? Or is it too hard? I can love you on more than looks (although that definitely plays a part) and I would ask you to do the same for me. . . .  
  
Christine, in a seemingly-melodramatic manner, kept on with her childish whining, thinking I would kill a thousand men, even though the only time I'd ever done anything of the sort was in Persia, and the boy assured her there was no Phantom of the Opera. I felt the Punjab lasso and ran it through my hand. _Oh, there isn't, eh? _I imagined the feel of tightening it round his neck.  
  
Then Christine spoke of me. Raoul, I've seen him, and I can't ever forget that sight!  
  
What was it like? he asked. She swallowed hard, looked round, and then met his gaze.  
  
His face - oh, what a horrible face! It is _hardly_ a face - was so distorted, deformed. . . . There was darkness all around, in his endless world of night. Darkness is his best friend, Raoul. . . .  
  
I rolled my eyes. Horrified stares, rejection, and hatred were no one's friends, and the darkness was the only place I could escape from them.  
  
But his voice filled my spirit with this wonderful sound, she continued. I felt hopeful for once. During that one night, my mind focused completely on music. Oh, what a sweet sound! My soul was soaring, Raoul, and my whole being felt like it was flying on the wings of an angel; he has the voice of an angel, oh, he does! Yes, she had heard the voice of an Angel - from the spawn of the devil.  
  
What you heard was a dream, Christine! Nothing more than a wonderful dream! Raoul told her. He had an uncanny ability to ruin my only joys at the exact wrong time. I wanted to toss the Punjab lasso down to catch him by the neck.  
  
Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world. . . Christine continued. That was a good enough description. Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore. . . . That was a good description, too - I adored her and threatened the Vicomte.  
  
Christine . . . Christine. . . . Raoul said, obviously trying to comfort her.  
  
Christine. . . . I echoed, somewhat despairingly.  
  
What was that? Christine asked in a hushed whisper.  
  
Their eyes met. Raoul suddenly changed the mood. I gagged - again. (I was truly shocked at how loud of noises I could create and still not attract their attentions. I was rather surprised.)  
  
No more talk of darkness, Christine. Forget these wide-eyed fears. I imagined his fearful eyes bulging like bugs' once the lasso was tightened round his throat. _That _would be a wide-eyed fear.'  
  
Christine and Raoul came up with the most sickening duet I'd ever heard - even listening to Carlotta sing seemed preferable. Tears sprung to my eyes. I tried my hardest not to release them, but I could not keep them held in any more than I could stop the inevitable kiss which followed their song. I choked on sobs as I watched them embrace. One sob was particularly loud (odd how Raoul caught this and yet not the loudest of my miserable choking earlier) and Raoul looked up. I believe I heard something, he told Christine. Perhaps someone is hurt. Should I check?  
  
My eyes were burning, my fingers were soaked with salty tears as I tried wildly to brush them away, and my head was throbbing from a splitting headache.  
  
Christine kissed him again. I could not bring myself to watch, yet my eyes were fastened on them and could not move. No matter how unendurable this was, I could not move too much. My headache was preferable, yet as physically unendurable as watching Christine kiss the boy.  
  
Christine realised the time by then. They had been up there kissing for too long. She released him reluctantly, and said, Raoul, I have to go back. They're probably wondering where I am and the show will be starting by now. Wait for me.  
  
Christine, I love you! Raoul called to her as she began walking away from him.  
  
_Christine, I love you! _I echoed him silently. _But I love you so much more than that boy ever will. . . .  
  
_I gave you my music. . . .  
made your song take— I choked on a sob as I looked over at the one person I loved most as she grew further and further out of my reach. —wing. . . and now how you've repaid me:  
denied me and betrayed me. . . . I hung my head and let out a sigh. He was bound to love you when he heard you sing. . . . Christine. . . Christine. . . .  
  
In the distance, I saw them and heard them singing to each other, pledging their love to one another. Unable to contain myself any longer, I pointed an accusing finger and sobbed uncontrollably for a moment before I called out at her again.  
  
You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you! I screamed at her - though she did not hear me. That flower, that angel, that traitor - _how_ were they the same person?  
  
Then I laughed. I don't know how, or why, I laughed, but I did. The chandelier was shaking and the lights were blinking on and off. Then I stopped laughing to make a command. __  
  
It came crashing down, and the two-kilo chandelier landed at Christine's feet as she took her bow for the ruined performance of _Il Muto._  
  
**Chapter 6  
Sing for Me**  
  
I left the managers alone for six months. I won't go into detail about these months, because the only events that really took place were waking up after an uneasy sleep full of nightmares, sitting at my organ, composing, writing, and eating a bit every three days, then sitting on the couch and crying for about an hour at least twice a week for a reason still unknown to me - I don't like to cry. (I'm guessing I was thinking about Christine and the viscount on the roof.)  
  
During those six months, I finished Don Juan Triumphant.  
  
The time had come, on New Years' Eve, during the masquerade ball that the managers had called for, to present my opera. I wrote several notes concerning the opera, and wrote up a cast list. I found my costume - Red Death. I put it on quickly and hurried over. I arrived right in the middle of it.  
  
I made my entrance at the top of the stairs. Every person there froze immediately. I descended slowly, my gaze seemingly flickering about the room but really planted on Christine - and the engagement ring strung about her neck.  
  
Why so silent, good messieurs? I asked sarcastically. Did you think that I had left you for good? Not a chance. Have you missed me, good messieurs? I have written you an opera!  
  
Christine's eyes widened when she saw the huge packet I held up. Here I bring the finished score: _Don Juan Triumphant_! I tossed it to Monsieur Firmin, dressed as a skeleton.  
  
I advise you to comply, I continued. My instructions should be clear. I turned my head to Christine and added, Remember, there are worse things than a _shattered chandelier!  
  
_I sauntered over to Christine. Your chains are still mine, I hissed, grabbing hold of the chain around her neck. You will sing for _me!_ I ripped it off and flung it across the room. She gasped, I swept my cloak round myself and disappeared through a trap door. Then I dropped my notes into the managers' inbox and awaited their arrival, pacing.**  
  
Chapter 7  
More Notes**  
  
André exclaimed, staring down at my open score.  
  
_No more ludicrous than you,_ I thought, rolling my eyes.  
  
Have you seen the score? he asked Firmin, who was entering the room.  
  
Yes! It's simply—_insane_! Firmin agreed.  
  
Just like he is! André said angrily. This is the final straw!  
  
_Only if you want another ruined performance,_ I thought dryly.  
  
This is truly idiotic! Well, you know my views. . . .  
  
_All too well,_ I thought grimly.  
  
Utter lunacy! André agreed again.  
  
But we daren't refuse. . . .  
  
_There's a good boy,_ I thought. I considered walking in and patting him on the back, then decided he didn't deserve it for calling my opera ludicrous.' Not even a scare that big would cover his punishment.  
  
Firmin was sorting the letters spread across his desk when André slumped into a chair. Not another chandelier. . . . he groaned.  
  
Firmin, discovering my letters, held them up. Look, my friend, what we have here.  
  
André opened his and read it aloud. He wasn't too pleased, but I had made quite clear to him that he didn't have a choice.  
  
Dear Firmin,  
Vis à vis my opera: some chorus members must be sacked. If you could, find out which has a sense of pitch - wisely, though, I've managed to assign a rather minor role to those who cannot act! _Carlotta, for one. _Firmin threw the note onto the desk, furious. Heh heh heh.  
  
Carlotta burst in about then.  
  
she exclaimed, pointing a finger at my opera. This whole affair is an outrage!  
  
_Now who's causing the outrage?_ I certainly wasn't out there screaming.  
  
Have you seen the size of my part?  
  
_No, I'm sorry, Carlotta; the part was too small that I couldn't see it._  
  
Piangi rushed in after her, with a similar complaint. Strange how one little opera wreaked so much havoc in one office in one day. Can you believe this? This is a total insult!  
  
The managers were in a frenzy to comfort the two stars, Carlotta and Piangi were in an outrage, and Christine and Raoul were entering the room hand in hand. I was both choking with laughter at the hilarious managers and choking on my throat when I saw Christine and the patron together.  
  
Ah, here's our little flower! Carlotta said dryly, noticing the future de Chagny and her little fiancée (truly, he was little! He was at least a foot shorter than I) entering the room.  
  
Ah, Miss Daaé, quite the lady of the hour! Firmin added.  
  
You have secured the largest role in this Don Juan, André continued to inform her.  
  
Christine Daaé? She doesn't have the voice! Carlotta mumbled, half to herself. _Are you sure of that, Signora?_  
  
Signora, _please,_ Firmin urged Carlotta.  
  
Then I take it you're agreeing, said the patron moodily.  
  
I think Christine's behind this, Carlotta whispered to Piangi.  
  
Calm down, Monsieur le Vicomte! We really have no choice, André replied to the Vicomte.  
  
_Wise decision, André; you have no choice,_ I felt like assuring him.  
  
She's the one behind this! Carlotta burst out, unable to contain herself. She pointed accusingly at Christine. Christine Daaé!  
  
Christine, who had been silent till now, was incensed. How dare you!  
  
I'm not a fool! Carlotta lied.  
  
You evil woman! Christine blurted. How dare you! This isn't my fault!  
  
So now we were talking about _faults?_ Goodness, it was only an opera, and Christine had enjoyed my playing - or so she said. . . . Then I felt that familiar feeling of rejection sweep over me as the full meaning of that sank in.  
  
I don't want any part in this, please!  
  
I shut my eyes and tried to shut out her voice that I had trained.  
  
The managers, now meekly accepting the fact that they had no choice but to produce my opera, glared at Christine, shocked.  
  
Why not? Firmin asked her quietly. Well, it's your decision, but - why not?  
  
André nodded his head, rounding on Christine. It is your duty!  
  
I cannot sing it, duty or not!  
  
All eyes turned to her, mine among them - in shock. Of _course_ she could sing it. . . I knew she could!  
  
Christine, Christine. . . . said Raoul. You don't have to. They can't make you.  
  
_You underestimate me, boy,_ I thought, a dry smile beginning to form on my face.  
  
Please, messieurs - I have another note, piped up Madame Giry. The managers groaned.  
  
'Fondest greetings to you all! A few instructions just before rehearsal starts: Carlotta must be taught to act. . . .'  
  
. . . . not her normal trick of strutting round the stage. I completed the sentence. Carlotta's face filled with anger. Our Don Juan must lose some weight - it's not healthy in a man of Piangi's age. I saw the look of shock on Piangi's plump face. And my managers must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts.  
  
As for Miss Christine Daaé. . . . Christine looked round, as if expecting to see me or something. No doubt she'll do her best - it's true, her voice is good. Though sickening at times. She knows, though, should she wish to excel, she has much still to learn. If pride would let her, return to me, her teacher, her teacher. . . .  
  
Your obedient friend. . . .  
  
. . . and Angel, Madame Giry finished.  
  
There was a moment of silence as all eyes turned to Christine, who then turned a bright shade of red. she asked uncertainly.  
  
Raoul came up with a _brilliant_ idea then.  
  
We have all been blind, he said with a shrug, but the answer is staring us in the face! I may have the solution to our   
  
I sat back in my chair to listen to this, trying my hardest not to laugh.  
  
We'll do his work, of course, he continued. But remember, we hold every card—for, if Miss Daaé sings, he is certain to attend!  
  
I rolled my eyes. Well, of course I was going to attend. Now if that _changed_ anything. . . .  
  
The managers improvised. We'll make certain that the men are there at every door and every door is barred. Then. . . .  
  
When the curtain falls, his reign will end! said a triumphant André.  
  
_Not likely, _I thought. I didn't need to hear any more; they'd read all my notes and revealed all their plans to me, so I was free to go home now.  
  
I was almost to the lake when I heard a familiar voice behind me, speaking to me.  
  
What do you want? I asked irritably, turning to the daroga, horribly annoyed.  
  
I came to check on you, he murmured. I'm afraid you might do something.  
  
What would I do?  
  
Well, murder someone. . . .  
  
I laughed. Well, daroga, if I were to murder someone, the only person I feel inclined to murder right now is _you._  
  
The Vicomte. . . . he began, trailing off as he saw me stiffen.  
  
What business is that of yours? I hissed.  
  
Don't kill him, the daroga instructed. Do not kill him.  
  
I felt a smile curving my already-twisted lips. And why not?  
  
Because he doesn't deserve it. . . his only crime is love.  
  
I was silent for a moment, but I had reason enough to be. The gaze that met his eyes was enough to convince that cursed daroga to leave. He was about to turn the corner when he called back to me, Don't kill him.  
  
I rolled my eyes and mouthed the words sarcastically in sincere imitation. He turned the corner and disappeared. I stepped into the boat and set off all the more swiftly.  
  
**Chapter 8  
Dreams**  
  
I've always accused myself for wistful thinking, and tonight was no exception as I propped myself up on the couch and lay my head back against it. Then I shut my eyes and imagined Christine sitting on the other end of the couch on nights she had spent down here. Sweet memories, then flooded back to the first morning she had been here when she pulled off my mask. Then, even more wistful thinking - thinking of pulling the Punjab lasso tight around the viscount's neck. I scolded myself.  
  
It was hard to sleep that night, but I finally remember banging my head against the back of the couch. Then everything went black for a while, until I had a curious dream.  
  
_Christine and the Vicomte, hand in hand on the roof. The Opera Ghost, watching, on the statue of Apollo. When the Vicomte begins closing in on Christine, she backs up. Raoul, curious, asks her what's wrong. But Christine does not answer and runs down the stairs. The Opera Ghost follows her, and sees she is now making her way towards her dressing room and calls out to the Phantom, who shows up behind her and locks the door.  
  
What is it, Miss Daaé? asks O.G.  
  
The-the Vicomte was. . . . says Christine, bursting into tears.  
  
Dear Christine. . . . O.G. takes her into his arms and lets her weep her fill. You're safe now, dear Christine. . . .  
  
Christine smiles at the Opera Ghost, moves her head closer until they. . . ._  
  
Dreams have an interesting ability to know when you wish for them to continue. Then they end.  
  
I woke up with a start, rubbed the back of my aching head, sauntered over to the organ, and tried to play. The noise made my headache worse. I reached to where I banged my head on the couch and was surprised to feel a sticky liquid. I drew my hand back quickly and was surprised to see blood.  
  
I knew I couldn't sleep without bleeding on whatever I chose to sleep on, and being a partial insomniac wouldn't allow me to sleep normally - I was sure of that. Perhaps some time on the roof would help me clear my mind. . . .  
  
Taking a step forward made me feel light-headed, so I had no choice but to lean against the wall for a moment. I wondered if I had been bleeding for a long time.  
  
There was nothing to be gained sitting there, I realised after waiting for a minute after I felt strong again. _If you plan on going to the roof, you should go now.  
  
_I tried my best to ignore my headache while I ascended the stairs. The attempt proved futile when the pain was so severe I was temporarily blinded. Luckily I stumbled onto the roof seconds afterward, ready to feel the breeze on the back of my head while attempting to clear it.  
  
I don't know how much later it was when I woke up, but it was evening when I opened my eyes. Perhaps it had been good for me to try to ignore it. I needed the sleep without knocking myself out again.  
  
Then I realised I had stopped bleeding. Yes, that walk had been good for me. My head no longer hurt, either.  
  
I looked out over Paris. People were all over, walking to cafés and other shops, going home to their flats, reading about the new opera - _the new opera?_  
  
Yes, rehearsals for _Don Juan Triumphant_ should've been starting right about now. I had to hurry if I were going to make it there on time.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Those who tangle with Don Juan!  
  
I closed my eyes and covered my ears. Signor Piangi was so off-pitch that I wondered how he had ever received the title head tenor.'  
  
No, no, Signor, Reyer broke in. —_right, Reyer, he's only three notes off_—but - _no._  
  
Piangi sighed. Reyer attempted to teach him the line correctly. Those who _tan, tan, tan. . . ._  
  
Those who tangle with Don Juan! Piangi sang.  
  
Reyer would've made a better head tenor.  
  
Everyone burst into furious conversation all at once. His way is better, I heard Carlotta saying dryly. At least he makes it sound like music! A few others laughed.  
  
Now where would it hurt Carlotta most?  
  
Would you speak that way in the presence of the composer? Madame Giry warned. I mentally cheered her - that was my boxkeeper, all right.  
  
Carlotta muttered, do you see the composer? I do not. See, he is not here! Even if he were here, I'd—  
  
Are you _sure of that,_ Signora?  
  
Carlotta rolled her eyes, but seemed to take the warning and quieted down. Piangi had discovered that Christine, being my student for some time, would know the piece better than anyone, and was asking for her guidance.  
  
Those who tan, tan, tan, Piangi was still wrong. Is right?  
  
Oh, not quite, Signor, Christine answered. Those who _tan, tan, tan. . . ._  
  
Piangi tried once more - and failed. I was sick of the commotion. The piano was right there above me and the noise was deafening as Reyer came back to instruct and attempt to restore order in the room.  
  
I opened yet another trapdoor underneath the piano and climbed up to play from inside. It was hard, but it worked.  
  
Everybody, in a trance, began to sing accurately - as they finished, Christine started inching away. I, eager to find out where she'd go next, climbed down and closed the trapdoor. _Where are you going, Christine? Where?_  
  
I ran as fast as I could to the mirror. She was there in not too long, searching her wardrobe frantically. What was she looking for?  
  
Her face lit up as she reached in and pulled out a navy blue cloak. She pulled it around her shoulders and dashed out the door. I felt like crying out to her, but I could never do that. But. . . where was she going?  
  
---------  
  
Author's Notes: Er, well, this one still uses quotes. . . but not as heavily as the previous chapters. This part also includes a chapter in which we don't see any other characters but Erik and the daroga. Sorry if Erik is a little out of character, but I suppose his thoughts reflect my own a bit, as well as my personality. The scene where Erik comes out of behind the gravestone - even my very-creative-active-24/7 imagination couldn't think of words to sum it up. But I did change things a bit there, hehehehe, but I believe Erik's out of character a bit there.  
  
**Chapter 9  
Reunited at the Grave  
  
**I followed her all the way to the graveyard in Perros. So this was where she was going. . . .  
  
She looked around, then stopped on a headstone in the shape of a cross. As if being drawn to it, she walked toward it, trance-like.  
  
Daddy. . . . she whispered quietly as she knelt by the stone. I tiptoed toward it as to hear the rest of what she was saying.  
  
You were once. . . my companion. . . you were all I cared about. _Well, that remained true until the Vicomte came around. . . ._ Then—then you were gone. . . .  
  
One of my talents is slinking about unseen, and that talent came in very handy as I found a way to slip behind the stone and hide.  
  
I still think about you every day, she continued softly. But dreaming of you. . . doesn't help me much, daddy. She turned away. You said I could do so much, yet I feel so helpless. . . . She let off a depressed sigh.  
  
But you kept your promise. She spun back around and faced the stone. You sent me the Angel of Music. He taught me how to sing, daddy, he has a voice like no other man! . . . . But his face . . . .  
  
I had been praying she wouldn't mention that.  
  
He was so _ugly,_ daddy! He wore a mask. . . and I wanted to know what was behind it. Daddy, it's as if he had everything a man could ever want and chose to pay for it with a deformed face. . . .  
  
Ah, perhaps! And perhaps I was just _born_ that way. Perhaps it led to a lifelong curse. Perhaps it meant that I would be hated for eternity - even by my own mother - because I had made the mistake of paying for it with my face.  
  
Daddy, I've been thinking about you so much. I don't know how to stop. . . . this isn't helping me become what you believed I could be. I'm trying so hard - but I just can't do it.  
  
Daddy, help me. . . help me say goodbye.  
  
That was my cue. What to say, what to say. . . . I chose a tune that was particularly sweet and hypnotic, but I wasn't sure what to say to her. Something that could bring her back. I opened my mouth and sang. Wandering child - so lost, so helpless. . . .  
  
Her eyes widened in disbelief.  
  
Yearning for my guidance. . . .  
  
Angel? Father? Friend or ghost? she asked breathlessly as I stepped out from behind the cross.  
  
Have you forgotten your Angel? I asked quietly.  
  
Angel - speak! she squealed in delight. She did not say more, but her blue eyes said her every thought.  
  
She was in a trance again, slowly approaching the gravestone - and myself.  
  
Too long you've wandered in winter. . . . I began, but a faint motion far behind her drew my attention.  
  
It was the Vicomte.  
  
Christine drew closer to me.  
  
I froze, stopping my song completely and staring at Raoul.  
  
Angel . . . ?  
  
The silence continued. _Vicomte, please get away from my Christine._  
  
Angel, speak. . . .  
  
_Jealous. Envy._  
  
I tried to grant Christine's wish, but I couldn't move - my sudden freezing up had nothing to do with the chill in the air.  
  
Christine is returning to the Angel. . . . came the nearly silent voice of the patron.  
  
Angel of Music, guide and guardian. . . . Christine walked slightly nearer and I finally came to my senses.  
  
Angel of Music! I echoed. You've denied me!  
  
Luring her back! the Vicomte snarled. From the grave, of all places!  
  
I denied you, Angel!  
  
Do not shun me, Christine!  
  
My protector!  
  
Who are you, Angel? asked the Vicomte (once again, asking thin air) as he stared at Christine walk closer every second.  
  
Come to me, strange Angel! Christine was fairly pleading.  
  
I am your angel of music. What deception. Come to your angel of music.  
  
The viscount sprang forth, beginning in our direction. I grew uneasy with the Vicomte being within fifty feet of me.  
  
began the viscount, believe me, this man - this _thing_ - is _not_ your father. He is just a man! Believe me, Christine! Please come back!  
  
Christine came out of her trance about then. Oh, Raoul! she exclaimed, hurrying to him and throwing herself into his arms. I winced. They didn't seem to notice.  
  
_Jealous. Envy._  
  
I clenched my fist. Bravo, monsieur! I hissed at Raoul.  
  
Christine suddenly was aware of something other than her lover, looking back up to me. I hadn't one thought of softness toward her as I looked at her, cuddling with the Vicomte de Chagny.  
  
Such spirited words! I continued, searching for words that were as spirited' and twice as offending.  
  
Raoul released Christine and began walking toward me. The Punjab lasso was in my pocket. . . . Let's see, monsieur, how far you dare go!  
  
More tricks! he growled.  
  
I'm here, monsieur! Keep walking! Come on, come on! I instructed him mockingly.  
  
Christine stepped forward, and Raoul instructed her to stay back.  
  
I'm here, monsieur, the _angel of death!_ Come on, keep coming this way!  
  
More deception!  
  
Oh. . . that one hurt.  
  
More violence! he added, glaring at the skulls lying around his feet. Those had nothing to do with me. . . .  
  
_If you don't leave Christine _alone, _yes, it will be quite violent!_ I pictured strangling him with my bare hands. Why use the Punjab lasso? It would be much more fun without the rope. . . .  
  
Raoul, _no!_ urged Christine, grabbing hold of his arm.  
  
Stay back! he spat at her.  
  
Come on, come on, monsieur, don't stop, don't stop! I commanded. Keep walking this way! Come on, monsieur! I paused. Unless you're _afraid. . . ._  
  
He said nothing, but kept walking. (I'm sure I saw him tremble a bit.)  
  
Raoul, come back! Christine was begging now.  
  
He and I both ignored her. I'm here, monsieur!  
  
Christine tugged at him and he finally turned, but kept a threatening glance in my direction.  
  
I growled. So be it! Now let it be war upon you _both! _I was steaming, watching as, once again, Christine grew further and further from my reach.  
  
**Chapter 10  
Time to Myself**  
  
It had been a hard night. Sleep seemed to dislike me as much as I disliked the viscount. I awoke several times, each time with some new nightmare to torment me later. I could not compose this time, either - there was nothing to write into, nothing to write. . . .  
  
It struck me sometime in the morning that I was starving. I hadn't eaten for a week now. I wondered why I never seemed to get any thinner.  
  
I stepped out of the boat on the other side of the lake after leaving the house that morning. It was particularly cold - I guessed in the low twenties - and I shivered, especially when I noticed the familiar figure waiting for me on the other side of the dock.  
  
The daroga liked to wait and watch me for some strange reason. He liked to meddle in my affairs. _Why?_ I wondered constantly. _I'm not so worthy of anyone's attention. Besides, daroga seems to do nothing but bother me._  
  
What, may I ask, are you doing here this morning? I mumbled.  
  
Warning you again. Don't kill him.  
  
  
  
Don't play stupid.  
  
I put the most mocking look of shock I could on my face, heavy with sarcasm. Well, daroga, I think you should stay out of my affairs.  
  
He stepped forward and glanced up at me. If you do something drastic. . . .  
  
I'll not, daroga - now, if you please, I'd like some time to _myself,_ without you at my heels.  
  
Where are you going, anyway? he asked curiously.  
  
I'm going out to rid myself of a few tortures.  
  
That was true, and yet it left so many possibilities for him to consider I would do. I hurried away before he could say anything more. He tried calling out, but I failed to hear (on purpose, of course).  
  
I despised large groups of people, and I was thankful I had set out early. It had just begun to grow light when I returned, taking a cut through the torture-chamber so I would not have to face the daroga again this morning.  
  
Many wonder what the Opera Ghost does in his spare time. The answer is, unlike many would suspect, draws. He composes when he feels inspiration, or he has something to write into. . . which has always been true for the past years, more than twenty, when _Don Juan Triumphant _was still a work in progress. . . but that was past, and I needed something to do now after I finished my meal and stored the rest of my food in a cupboard.  
  
There weren't many writing instruments other than my blood-red pen, which I didn't wish to use until I was adding the bloody details of the Vicomte's corpse when I was finished with the picture. I finally located a black pen and began to draw.  
  
The picture started wonderfully. I put every detail I could recall of Christine on that paper - which was every single detail of her - and then I shaded the masterpiece. Some have said I settle for nothing less than perfection when I can have the best, and one could not disagree. It was a perfect picture of her in black and white.  
  
I debated whether or not to add myself in the picture. A self portrait has never been something I wished to draw; my ugliness was not to be put on paper - even with the mask on. But Christine _was_ smiling lovingly in the picture in one direction, and I certainly wasn't going to draw her smiling at _the Vicomte_ - and if she chose to go, I'd always have a beautiful picture of her smiling at me, even if it was a fake recreation of her I'd drawn in more of my wishful thinking, but such a man as I has every right to want something of the sort. Then of course there was room enough in the corner to draw a dead man and I had that bloody red pen to add the last remnants of life in a murdered corpse to the picture.  
  
I put down my picture, unsure what to add next, or wondering if I should just leave it as it was. But I did feel like singing would lift my spirits a little, so I sat to write a song to sing.  
  
I came up with a song that would never reach anyone's ears but mine, describing in one song my feelings of the whole cursed affair of Christine and the Vicomte.  
  
When the sun meets horizon,  
and the angel becomes aglow,  
the angel hears an opera run,  
yet he stays in tearful sorrow.  
  
The yellow and purple sky  
seems to fade and turn to green;  
the angel's sorrow builds, but why?  
Jealous of everything he's seen. . . .  
  
It began that way, and dissatisfied as I was, it was true. The sun was setting, the angel statue began to glow with the bright sun's last extravagant beams, and despite _Il Muto_ interrupted beneath me, it was running; and tearful sorrow had indeed overtaken me.  
  
The golden rose, the perfect flower -  
hand in hand with the rich beast.  
Even more comes with each hour,  
it has long been and hasn't ceased.  
  
Darkness threatens to take him away,  
as he sits there and watches the world.  
Tears threaten to overcome his work and play,  
as he deals with what he has unfurled.  
  
In essence I had done it when I had deceived Christine. I had begun the series of problems rolling themselves out on the table, and I'd not taken the time to work each one out and put it away.  
  
I sighed and looked at my song. Messy handwriting - true and depressing lyrics - and no music yet.  
  
I glared at the organ sitting a few feet away. I didn't know whether this song deserved music; it was hardly my best work, and the tune would have to fit the song's mood, and I dislike sad songs.  
  
I rose, walked quickly to it, sat down, and began to play, hoping to come up with something soon.  
  
**Chapter 11  
Play-time**  
  
I was brimming with energy this evening, wildly excited, in the column of my box. Tonight was the premiere of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and I had a tremendous desire to hear Christine - yes, that cursed traitor - sing. I also had a tremendous desire to sing with her, since she would not do that willingly nowadays.  
  
My gaze fell upon the small group of people conversing on the main floor. Raoul - arr - as well as the managers and a few other men, including a few firemen and marksmen.  
  
So you know what you're to do? Raoul ran a hand up the barrel of a pistol in his hands before handing it to the man he was speaking to.  
  
Yes, monsieur, the man replied with a nod. Wait till I hear his signal, then fire. . . .  
  
When you fire, shoot to kill. Raoul's voice was icy, yet as sickeningly smooth as the gun he had just handed away.  
  
How will I know when to fire?  
  
Believe me, monsieur, you'll know, Raoul assured him. Be ready. He turned. You, monsieur - yes, you in the pit - do you have a view of this area?  
  
Perfect view, said another man, raising his head to be seen.  
  
Good. Now, the doors. André?  
  
André lifted his head and nodded at the viscount of Chagny. The doors, messieurs? he called.  
  
The north door is secure! shouted a fireman.  
  
Each door was called off by a fireman as secure, and then Raoul returned to the managers to make any other arrangements for my death.  
  
So, the doors are secure, he began, and we have marksmen to make certain our Phantom friend will not disappear this time. As for any other—  
  
I'm here: the Phantom of the Opera.  
  
I had to try my hardest to restrain the maniacal laughter I was sure would follow if I wasn't careful. My technique as a ventriloquist was certainly fun to use at times.  
  
All eyes turned to the northwest end of the theatre.  
  
I'm _here:_ the Phantom of the Opera!  
  
My voice was louder this time, and _from somewhere else._  
  
I'm _here, messieurs! The Phantom of the Opera!_  
  
I kept changing the location of my voice until finally it landed in my box. I'm here: the Phantom of the Opera!  
  
In the confusion, one of the marksmen - the one to whom the viscount had handed the gun - fired, striking the door of the box.  
  
You _idiot!_ Raoul fairly yelled at him, rounding on him. He cowered in fear. You'll kill someone! I told you only to shoot when the signal came!  
  
But Monsieur le Vicomte—  
  
No I ordered, furious with their argument over my death. For _once—_ I put emphasis on once, Monsieur le Vicomte is right.  
  
Seal my fate tonight, I continued. I hate to have cut the fun short, but the joke's wearing thin. . . . let the audience in - _let my opera begin!_  
  
The managers, in a frightened rage, had no choice but to hurry and let in the audience.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
The time was coming close. The opera had been wonderful, though Piangi and Carlotta performed like two schoolchildren just beginning drama class. But Piangi's time was up. He sang his last few lines with Passarino,' and walked easily backstage, where he had his last breath. I tightened the Punjab lasso quickly and left it on him for a moment while I stole his costume. I took care to put the hood on over my face, then I took the Punjab lasso and placed it in my pocket and tiptoed onstage.  
  
  
  
I scowled underneath my hood and my mask. I'd completely forgotten this part.  
  
Passarino - go away, for the trap is set and waits for its prey. . . .  
  
He scampered offstage, and I walked slowly towards Christine. She was holding an apple, sitting on a bench. . . at a table set for two. . . .  
  
I sat.  
  
You have come here in pursuit of your deepest urge - in pursuit of that wish which, till now, has been silent. . . silent. . . .  
  
I proceeded with my song in my opera. Christine grew increasingly tense and wary with every movement I made. I could tell she was disgusted with singing a few of her lines to _me_ by the look in her eye. She'd much rather sing them to the boy, I knew that much.  
  
I chose to ignore that best I could, and attempted to dodge Christine's wild attempts to throw back my hood.  
  
At last we sung together at the end of the song. The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn - we've passed the point of no return. . . .  
  
Then she flipped back my hood and I stared into her face. What to say now. . . I searched for words and could come up with nothing except a few stutters.  
  
  
  
She stared back at me, her eyes seeming to say, Oh, the horror! Mine were responding, I honestly do not care what you think, Christine. I love you.  
  
she asked softly, not stopping to think about the audience. They were witnessing the first ever performance of _Don Juan Triumphant,_ with its own brilliant love scene ending.  
  
Please - say you don't hate me. Say you want to be with me, say you like me - say - say— I had to stop. I choked.  
  
She stared bitterly at first, then with a growing softness I could feel. Ahhhh. . . so she was yet another one fallen prey to pity.  
  
I regained my strength moments later. My gaze fell on the ring on my finger and I pulled it off. Say you love me, Christine, I began, handing her the ring, that's all I ask of—  
  
Christine had slipped the ring on her finger, and then she cut me off by yanking my mask off my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I had seen Raoul's horrified and disgusted expression. The Parisians stared. I swept my cloak around us and opened a trapdoor beneath us. Mist from below swirled onto stage at the force I used to shut the trapdoor.  
  
**Chapter 12  
The Point of No Return**  
  
Come, Christine! Come! I snarled, shoving her into the boat and jumping in after her. I seized the pole and pushed on the dock, setting out, and then began to propel us forward. Do you like me? Say you do! I know you do, Christine!  
  
I could see the fear in her eyes at my rough attitude, but I couldn't care then. I continued.  
  
But of course, you're hurting yourself, forcing yourself to stare at my hideous face - perhaps you didn't know. . . .  
  
I rounded on her. _That my own mother hated me for it, I was carried around in a freak show for it, and my _whole world_ feared and loathed me for it!_  
  
She cringed. I had not realised I was mere inches away from her now, still yelling at her. I backed up a bit.  
  
I'm sorry, Christine, have I hurt your ears? I fear I was not quite paying attention. I paused. What matter? You were not paying attention, either. . . .  
  
Yes, I was, she replied quietly.  
  
Oh, were you? How nice of you.  
  
We bumped into the other shore, and I reached for her hand. She reluctantly grasped it, pulling herself out, knowing that if she did not do it herself I'd have to for her. She apparently knew the consequences of disobeying me.  
  
Here we are, Christine! Isn't it beautiful? I lit the candles tonight - I didn't think you would like the darkness. I'm rather sad to see it go, though - after all, _darkness is my best friend'. . . ._  
  
Terrified, she glared at me in shock and disbelief. I smiled grimly.  
  
H-How did you know I said that? she asked.  
  
My dear, perhaps you forget I am the infamous Opera Ghost, who resides in Box Five and has never been seen, who has slipped behind a headstone before your very eyes unnoticed. Have you a single doubt how I managed to climb onto Apollo without your knowing it? I grinned at her a smile meant only to torment her further. How evil of me. . . .  
  
She was at a loss for words. Oh. . . . came her sad reply after a minute or so of silence.  
  
I laughed darkly. Presently, Christine, we shall enjoy an eternity together. You have unmasked me twice now, and I daresay that's enough times for me to permit. I sauntered over to the image of Christine and took the veil from its head. I added, placing it on her head, I dislike pity.  
  
She stared into my wicked face, swallowing her terror - or at least trying.  
  
So, Christine - are you ready to face the fact that because of _your_ foolish decision, you'll have to live with _this_— I paused and pointed to my face. —_this_ before your eyes?  
  
Believe me, this sight is not such a horror for me now. . . she began, staring. But your heart must be as cold as your hands. . . .  
  
She was only inches away. I glared back into her face, coolly and not lovingly in the slightest - even if I did love the girl more than life itself. (One leading a life such as mine could easily love her more than life itself.)  
  
Wait, Christine, I said quickly, sensing Raoul's presence behind me. I think, my dear, we have a guest. . . .  
  
I turned to face him, making sure he was thoroughly afraid of my corpse-like appearance before continuing. Good evening, monsieur! So kind of you to show up. I was hoping you'd attend tonight.  
  
Christine's face lit up when she saw her love and her saviour' show up. I gave her a sharp glance, then turned back to face my guest.  
  
Free her! Raoul ordered, behind the portcullis, gripping the bars. I don't care - just do what you want - but free her!  
  
What a wonderful greeting from your fiancée, Christine! I muttered dryly.  
  
Please, Raoul! Christine begged. It's useless. . . .  
  
I love her! said the Vicomte, going on. Does that mean nothing?  
  
I replied shortly.  
  
Christine scowled. I smiled at her.  
  
Show some compassion. . . . he pled.  
  
The world showed no compassion to me! I growled.  
  
Christine, Christine - let me see her!  
  
Of course, monsieur. I gestured. The fence rose, and Raoul hurried in.  
  
Christine stood up to run to him, but I blocked her path. Monsieur, welcome to my home! Before I show you around, perhaps you'd be so kind as to answer my question. Did you really believe I would harm Christine?  
  
He opened his mouth to speak. I stopped him. Why should I make her suffer _your_ fate, for _your_ sins?  
  
I smiled evilly at Christine, pulling the Punjab lasso from my pocket and tossing the noose around his neck.  
  
I laughed triumphantly. Were you expecting _that,_ monsieur? Did I not warn you enough? I turned to Christine. So saying, my dear - perhaps now you shall see _exactly_ the consequences of your past decisions. But I do leave you a choice.  
  
I pointed at Raoul. His life is held right now in my hands. I lowered my hand and continued. Do you _still_ want to marry him, with the knowledge that if you say _yes,_ you will be a widow before you even utter the two words I do'?  
  
Tears clung to her frightened blue eyes. I may have pitied you for your own fate. . . but I can't seem to feel anything but hate. . . .  
  
At least it is not pity! I was quite aware I was losing my temper. I hate pity! Much like you hate me! Why? Why, Christine? Did you like me _before_ you unmasked me?  
  
Raoul was witnessing all this in shock, trying to free himself from the magical noose wrapped around his neck. He'd never free himself.  
  
Now, here is your choice: do you choose the wedding or the funeral, Christine? Live with me! We shall share a splendid eternity down here in the depths of the theatre, coming around to every opera, performing for a public. . . of course, your other option, your refusal. . . murder your beloved Raoul. . . .  
  
She looked over at him sadly.  
  
Oh, Christine, forgive me, he said softly. I did it all for you. . . and all for nothing.  
  
I snorted.   
  
Farewell - my so-called friend and angel, Christine was saying.  
  
She feels pity!  
  
Christine, say no! Raoul urged. Don't throw your life away to save me.  
  
_Throw her life away?_ I repeated bitterly. I presume refusing me even the only joy in my life is not throwing my life away?  
  
They only looked at me, both at a loss for words.  
  
Raoul said despairingly.  
  
Raoul. . . .  
  
You try my patience, I snapped at Christine. _Make your choice!_  
  
Identified as the Opera Ghost. . . living in darkness . . . not a friend in the world. . . she whispered. Parading in a freak show. . . what kind of life _have_ you known?  
  
A bitter one, full of pain! I assured her. Even more now, since you've done this to me!  
  
She looked calm, facing me. You are never alone.  
  
I all but laughed aloud. What did she _mean,_ I was not alone? Of _course _I was alone - she was leaving, she was—  
  
Kissing me.  
  
Yes, she kissed me. I couldn't believe it. I wasn't really sure what to do. My hands floated in the air, wondering where to go. I'd never been kissed before, not even by my own mother, and I never expected that _now,_ of all times, I'd receive a kiss from the one person I loved most. My first impulse was to pull away, but Christine simply wouldn't let me, so I just let my hand rest on the back of her head.  
  
My eyes were open for a moment in shock, long enough to glance about the room and see Raoul's horrified expression, then I shut them in bliss. Whatever Christine's reason. . . I didn't care. . . I just hoped she wasn't planning on stopping this moment anytime soon.  
  
I believe she was running out of breath when she broke the kiss, but I was still upset that she'd stopped the first kiss in my life.  
  
Luckily for me, she did it again, and I was careful to put all my passion into this one. . . I honestly can say I felt some passion in her kiss.  
  
Enjoy it as I might, the moment Christine released me, I backed up immediately. I looked at Raoul, gasping for breath in shock at my own emotion. I wasn't sure what to do now. Release Raoul and let her go. . . or keep her here. . . .  
  
  
A/N: The long awaited new chapter is _finally_ here! Once, I have decided what to do! Readers who want to see the ending changed, I have added another chapter. But those readers who don't want change (or don't want to risk reading something in which I, a thorough Erik/Christine supporter, may have ruined the ending!) can just finish reading this chapter and the story will be, at long last, over! (Oh, yes, might I add that I've added _Journey of the Mask_ to my list of books read on the Phantom?) Ah, yes, one more detail. Concluding Chapter 13 I have used some lines from Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again and I have added to them something of my own. But it seemed very fitting. *L*  
  
**Chapter 13  
Incoming**  
  
Where is the murderer?  
  
I instantly realised that there had been a mob formed that was approaching readily. What was I to do? Christine had kissed me - so that _must_ be her choice - but would it be right for me to keep her here, to confine her in my world? The darkness may have been my best friend, but it wasn't hers, and she was much younger than me. She had her whole life ahead of her.  
  
Christine was looking around her uncomfortably as the mob came closer, their hard footsteps getting nearer each second, more guns cocking each moment. What to do now. . . .  
  
I turned to Raoul. For a tense moment, I waited, then I decided to free him. Christine loved him, that was obvious, and not me. I pulled the noose around his head and put it back in my pocket.  
  
Christine looked over at me as if asking for permission, and I nodded, though I knew my eyes were saying exactly the opposite. She ran over to the boy and embraced him. I couldn't bear to watch it, even if it _was_ my decision.  
  
Where is the Phantom of the Opera?  
  
He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!  
  
Keep searching!  
  
We'll not leave till we find him!  
  
I turned back to Raoul and Christine. I winced. You'll have to forgive me, my dear Christine, if I cannot stand the sight of you and the boy cuddling like that. However. . . . I drew a long breath. You're free to leave.  
  
I gazed pointedly at the boy. Take her, Monsieur le Vicomte, and go. You may use my boat. Please, monsieur. Go. I shooed them away. I don't want you to be here when _they_ come. . . .  
  
They were reluctant in the confusion, but by the time I began to chase them, they left hurriedly enough. My music box turned on as if on cue. I knelt beside it to sing along with its tune.  
  
Masquerade. . . paper faces on parade. Masquerade. Hide your face so the world will never find you. I sighed. That was what I'd been doing my whole life. . . hiding . . . hoping that the world would stay back and I could live in peace. Hiding my face because of its hideousness, hiding from society out of anxiety, fear, and hatred towards humanity.  
  
I heard footsteps behind me and I turned. My heart beat faster, my breathing quickened, and my spirits lifted. It was - her. It was Christine. She had come back!  
  
She slid the ring off her finger and held it out to me. I wilted.  
  
As I took it from her, I whispered, Christine - I love you. . . . I figured she already knew that, but I had nothing else to say and I wanted her to know if by some chance she didn't. I was the worst I'd been in years. Since Christine was leaving my life forever, what was the point in living on? I could die peacefully, here in my lair, hidden in Christine's room, or I could die messily or painfully, either one, by the mob's hands (then who'd be the murderer?) and I would not mind. But I decided to stay for a little while first. I could at least watch her go.  
  
Look for paw prints, said a voice of the oncoming mob. A few of the others laughed, most of them groaned, and even fewer ordered for silence.  
  
I heard Raoul and Christine singing their duet. The mob was getting closer. Christine was getting farther away. The beautiful Christine. . . was now not just out of my reach, but out of my life forever, to live on only in my memories, none of which would be comforting; even the kiss would be ruined by the remembrance she had only done it as a bribe.  
  
I felt tears in my eyes as I sang to Christine the last words of mine she'd, and probably everyone else, ever hear. You alone can make my song take flight— I had to pause for a moment, since sobs were threatening to overcome me in the middle of my last words. It's over now: the music of the night. . . . I broke off the last note, choking. So saying, I walked to my throne, sat down and wrapped my cloak around me. I was feeling awfully cold, and the cloak wasn't helping. Perhaps my heart really _was _as cold as my hands. I was just so cold. . . . And was I tired. . . .  
  
The mob was climbing over the portcullis and were starting to pour into my house. I covered myself completely with my cloak, thinking one last thought.  
  
I left my mask on my lap. I felt no need to wear it, now that I had no reason to live and no one would be seeing me again. It had been my lifelong prison. . . .  
  
My last thought was of Christine. I had sung my final song, but in my head was my true last song.  
  
_Dreaming I could hear your voice,  
Though silently I wish to die._  
_Try to forgive, teach me to live . . .  
Give me the strength to try!  
Back to solitude, back to my despair,  
Underground, where no one can stare. . . .  
Everyone's living but me—I ask myself,   
My final words are let off on a sigh—  
Silently sing them, a tear in my eye—  
Christine, help me say goodbye. . . .  
  
_I slipped through a trapdoor in the back of my chair and snuck into Christine's room.  
  
I closed my eyes and let myself fall back on the bed.  
  
(**Readers, to satisfy some and allow others to go on, I have concluded this in two ways. Those who would like to go on can await my next chapter [sorry :p]. Those who would like the show to end as it is, do not continue.**)  
  
THE END


End file.
